


Skimming Stones

by Beleriandings



Series: Tales of Lake Mithrim [1]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Amras assumed to have died at Losgar, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-30
Updated: 2013-09-30
Packaged: 2017-12-28 00:34:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/985516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beleriandings/pseuds/Beleriandings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Amrod, grieving for his twin brother, talks to his young nephew.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Skimming Stones

I stand still, contemplating the small figure sitting on the ground in front of me. My nephew is huddled against the back wall of the outbuilding that serves as a forge. Tyelpe sits with his skinny legs drawn up beneath his chin, back hunched, hands covering his face. He doesn’t appear to have noticed my presence, although I stand right in front of him, and I have the distinct impression that he has been there for a while.

I rub the back of my neck uncomfortably. I should go to him, I know. Comfort him. But I do not know what to say. It is as if all the words of comfort in the world have been used up already, and still it is not enough. Ambarussa would know. The thought comes without warning, causing me almost physical pain, a sudden singing ache in my chest, leaving me dizzy and reeling. I try to breathe deeply and evenly, squeezing my eyes closed. I have become practiced at keeping those thoughts under control, or at least not letting others know when I have them. But sometimes I still slip, it seems. I know I must work harder at it. I draw in another deep breath, making up my mind, and walk over to my nephew. I cough awkwardly, feeling that I should at least announce my presence.

Tyelpe’s head jerks backwards to look up at me. He is still only a child of twenty-six, but, I realise, he looks old beyond his years. He has been crying, I see now, his eyes rimmed with red. Those eyes are full of guilt, as if I have caught him doing something shameful. I feel that sharp pain in my chest again as I think of all the times it has been me, that my brothers have tactfully avoided mentioning my bloodshot eyes, the sound of sobs in the night through the thin walls. Ever since… no. I check myself, managing to stop my thoughts going any further only by a great effort of will. Instead I go and sit down beside him on the ground.

He seems to relax a little, perhaps. “Where’s your Atar? Isn’t he here?” I say, anything to break the silence. He mutters something and looks away. His hair is growing long over his eyes, I notice.

“What did you say, Tyelpe?” Too late, I wonder if pressing the point may not be such a good idea.

He looks up again, but seems to look just past my line of vision, never quite making eye contact. He speaks in a small voice, barely audible. “He was here before, in the forge. He - he went away.”

Curvo has been stormy and unpredictable recently, his eyes strange and difficult to read. Sometimes he is silent for days on end, his face unyielding as carven stone, but two nights ago I heard his sharp raised voice, and Macalaurë’s, through the wall. It had been impossible not to. I am certain the whole camp had heard their argument. I know I should have tried to calm them, but I did nothing. What could I have done, anyway? Maitimo had always been the one to make peace, to bring calm rationality to any argument with his soft, gracious voice and his languid smile. Instead I moved as far away from the wall as I could, sat down on the ground and put my hands over my ears, a bitter mockery of when I was still a child, and it was our parents that were shaking the house in Tirion with their fights. But then Ambarussa would have been there, and Maitimo too, and he would have sat us in his lap, and stroked our hair, and whispered soothing words until we fell asleep. Macalaurë may even have sung us a lullaby.

Things have changed.

I sigh, feeling a stab of pity for my nephew. He never had brothers, and he seems to be losing his father day by day, along with what remains of his childhood.

“Come on” I say, more to distract myself, “Do you want to go for a walk?” I stand up, giving his sleeve an encouraging tug. He follows, looking a little dubious. There are very few places to go around the camp, and no one leaves it unless they must. I take him by the hand, and we walk. It is bitterly cold, but the sky is flat and white. I dislike the way the new lights in the sky illuminate the clouds flatly from behind, making them appear like a blank off-white wall. The damp air is heavy and oppressive against our faces. It will rain soon, and then we will go back. But for now we walk along the shore of the lake, looking out across the iron-grey water to the opposite shore where another cluster of huts can just be discerned. I look away, down to the smooth stones of the lake shore crunching beneath our feet, and give Tyelpe’s hand a soft, encouraging squeeze.

“Is anything upsetting you? Did something happen, earlier?” I finally ask. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want” I add hastily. “But it might help.” I look at my strange, solemn nephew nervously. I am not Maitimo; I have no idea what do in this situation. And Maitimo is gone, most likely dead. I do not want to consider the alternative.

Tyelpe breaks in to my thoughts, for which I am profoundly grateful. “It wasn’t good enough” he said. “I was practising working in the forge, beating the steel for a small, plain knife, basic stuff. But Atar-” he broke off.

I feel foreboding. “What? What did he say?”

He looks up at me, as if trying to decide whether he can trust me, his silver-grey eyes (more like Atar’s than Curvo’s, I realise suddenly) full of pain, but again not quite meeting mine. “I won’t tell anyone, not if you don’t want me to.”

He is silent.

With a sigh, I lean down and pick up a stone from the ground. It is smooth and flat and round, and fits pleasingly into the palm of my hand. I look at it thoughtfully.

“Did anyone ever show you how to skim stones?”

He doesn’t answer.

I skim the stone across the flat water of the lake. It hits the surface three times before being swallowed up with a muffled splash. I watch Tyelpe. After a moment the corners of his mouth twitch. “Uncle Pityo? How did you do that?”

I pick up two more flat stones, one for each of us. “Here. Hold it in your palm like this” - I demonstrate – “and then swing your arm, like this.” I send another stone skimming across the surface of the lake. He tries to copy me, but his stone simply plops into the water, close to the shore. “It takes practice” I say, remembering when Tyelko had showed me and Ambarussa how to do it, that time we had visited Alqualondë. He tries again, with the same result. And again. Then he scoops up a handful of stones, and flings them into the water, with a shout of frustration.

“Tyelpe - ”

“He doesn’t think I’m good enough, Uncle. He didn’t say anything. But he came into the forge where he had left me to practice, and he looked at my work, and that was just it, he didn’t say anything. He only leaned his head back, and gave me this look - ” Tyelpe looks as though he is fighting back tears again, his voice cracking, “ – like he was disappointed. Like he expected better. And then he just left, without saying anything, and… I don’t understand. Does he hate me, uncle? Have I done something wrong? I had thought he was at least a bit proud of me – before.”

Before. That word that we never use, simultaneously beautiful and utterly terrifying. I choose my words carefully. “Oh Tyelpe. Don’t be silly, of course he doesn’t hate you. You’re his only son, he loves you more than anything.” I wish I could make myself sound more confident than I feel about this, but the truth is I know little enough myself about what goes on in Curvo’s mind these days. “And I’m sure he’s not really disappointed. You’re clever, Tyelpe, and you’re already a fine craftsman. It’s just this family…” I try to stop the bitterness creeping into my voice “…it can make it seem that way, sometimes.”

He does not answer. I wish I could find it in me to reach out to him, find any words at all that would help. To be as Maitimo was (perhaps it is good, I think, that we have all been speaking about him in the past tense so determinedly that it has slipped into my very thoughts. Perhaps that is healthier. If only I could truly make myself believe it) and to be able to sweep him into my arms and be the comforting figure that Curvo no longer is to this lonely child. If only. But I feel as though all the comfort I had to spare for others has gone, every kind word and joyful memory leaching away. Or they are still there, but I dare not look, lest I open the wound a little wider.

Suddenly he looks at me keenly, as if guessing my thoughts. “What did it feel like?” He blurts out. “When he died?”

Nausea washes over me as I try to read his face. Morbid curiosity? It wouldn’t surprise me. I can feel my face glowing despite the chill air, my breathing suddenly fast and ragged. I force myself to calm down, knowing the bright pink spots must show on my pale, freckled cheeks. Tyelko had always teased us over that. I looked back at Tyelpe, whose eyes were filled with a strange, dancing light. Maybe he needed to hear. Maybe I needed to tell someone. I opened my mouth, steeling myself.

“Amil always said that we were born with our fëar tangled together. It was why she named us the same. We can - could - hear each other, we could talk without saying anything. Feel what the other was feeling.” I pause, not wanting to go any further, and at the same time feeling unable to stop the words from coming now that I had begun. “It was… well… part of my fëa was torn away that day. I couldn’t breathe or see through the smoke, I was… he was… we were burning.” I stop, feeling suddenly guilty. He is only a child. There are tears in his eyes as he watches my face intently.

“Uncle” - his voice is even quieter than before – “I – I didn’t mean… Telvo. I meant my grandfather. Your Atar.” I stare at him blankly, dimly aware that hot tears are streaming down my cheeks now too. “I’m – I’m sorry” he stammers. “You don’t need to say anything, if you don’t want to. In fact, please don’t. I shouldn’t have asked.”

My mind goes blank. I don’t think I could speak if I tried. My jaw seems to have locked in place, my voice fled.

He stands, and I think he is about to walk away, but instead he leans down and picks up another flat stone. He skims it across the water. It bounces three, four, five times, before disappearing beneath the water almost without a sound. “I did it.” His voice is utterly devoid of emotion, his pale eyes returning to not quite making contact with mine. He looks out over the lake, and so do I, just in time to see the first drops of rain pockmarking the flat slate-coloured surface of the water. The drops splash on our upturned faces. I stand. “Come on, Tyelpe.” I take his hand again. “Let’s go back to the camp.”


End file.
